Would Jove appoint some flower to reign, in matchless beauty on the plain, the Rose (mankind will all agree). The Rose the queen of flowers should be.

To me the Muses truly gave / An envied and a happy lot: / E'en when I lie within the grave, / I cannot, shall not, be forgot.

I will let my body flow like water over the gentle cushions.

Raise high the roof-beam, carpenters. Like Ares comes the bridegroom, taller far than a tall man.

Mere air, these words, but delicious to hear.

Love, like a mountain-wind upon an oak, falling upon me, shakes me leaf and bough.

Eros harrows my heart: wild gales sweeping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks.